At the time of writing, I have spent the last five days at a constant temperature of 39º (due to an infection the details of which I have no wish to go into). As I lay awake at nights, staring at the ceiling, vaguely troubled by the unopened mail next to the bed, it struck me that years ago, in similar situations, I had reacted very differently.
When I was in my 'twenties, for example, fevers would have me writhing around in my rented room in Poble Sec, imagining all manner of things in full technicolour.
On one occasion, for example, I sweated an entire anarchist rock opera into existence in the space of three of the small hours: the theme music, the funny bits, the dance routines, you name it. I had an entire black and red extravaganza going, all of it designed to show audiences around the country that anarchism was, really, the best option of them all. Sadly, the show folded for good as soon as its perspiring empresario finally nodded off.
On another, particularly bad night, a niggling feeling of jealousy towards my girlfriend at the time, who had just gone back to her native London, was mushroom-clouded by the fever into a hectic mesh of shadow scenes that jerked their way across all four walls, revealing her and an unidentified man humping away without fear or shame in front of my dilated eyes. (Later, as it turned out, I found out that I'd not only got the date right, but most of the positions as well).
Twenty years on, however, I seem to be taking my fevers with a pinch of salt. As I said, this time round, far from imagining show-stopping scenes or bacchanalian sex, I merely stared at the ceiling and waited for the next thought that came into my head. The next thought turned out to be this mild little article, which only goes to prove my point.